“That’s an earnest,” said the spider.
She bit the fly with her mandibles, which were filled with poison, so that he died at once. Then she ate him. And she did the same with the next three that came into the web. After that, she could eat no more. She let a good many little insects, that had the misfortune to get caught, hang and sprawl, without stirring a limb. When a good fat fly came along, she bit him dead, spun a little web round him and hung him up:
“He may come in handy one day, when I run short,” she said.
“Very sensible,” said the mouse. “That’s really the first thing you’ve said that I can agree with. But, otherwise, I am bound to say I don’t care for your ways. They’re far too sly for me. And then you use poison, like the adder. That, I think, is mean.”
“You think so, do you?” said the spider, with a sneer. “Is it any worse than what you others do? I suppose you blow a trumpet when you sneak out after your prey; eh, you pious little mouse?”
“Indeed I could, if I had a trumpet,” said the mouse. “Thank goodness, I am not a robber and murderer like yourself. I gather nuts and acorns and anything else that comes to hand and I have never hurt a soul.”
“No, you’re a dear little woman of the old-fashioned sort,” said the spider, “You take other people’s leavings and are quite happy. Then you go home and let your husband and children pet and fondle you. I’m not built that way, let me tell you. I don’t care for caresses, but I have an appetite. I want meat: nice, juicy fly-meat; and lots of it. I ask nothing of anybody, but get myself what I want. If things go well, I have all the honour and pleasure myself; if they go badly, I don’t go crying to anybody. It would be a good thing if there were more women like me.”
“You’re so rough,” said the mouse.
“Fiddlesticks!” replied the spider. “It’s all one. I’m no worse than most people. Take the goat’s-foot and the parsley: they fight for the butterflies and bees and steal each other’s light and air as much as they can.”